


Trivial Pursuit

by ayesakara



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayesakara/pseuds/ayesakara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronicling of events that take place during three years of Brian and Justin’s lives after Justin moves to New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for scrooged in December 2005
> 
> ORIGINAL ASSIGNMENT: A Non-AU, Preferably a post-S5 (like the next year, not way off in the future) Christmas story  
> involving a Brian/Justin gift exchange (could be on their own, or with the group at Deb's - or both - whatever). I'm okay with angst, as long as there's a happy ending. Any rating is fine. Sex is not a necessity, but a welcome addition :-P Requested by: asm614
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: It’s not next year. But it’s also not way off in the future. There’s angst and there is gift exchanging. This version has been slightly ‘cleaned up’ from what was posted at scrooged. Thank you to darksylvia for being a splendid beta as always!

_Pittsburgh_

The first time you kiss him after you packed your entire life into a suitcase and left to pursue a career in a strange city, is at exactly twenty-five minutes and twelve seconds after midnight on a Saturday morning.

It’s been precisely four weeks and three days since you last touched him, and the ache in your gut has never been this piercing. You calculated the moment of your reunion down to the nanosecond, for you will not jinx it by showing up on a Friday night falling on a thirteenth.

You leave your bags at the loft and follow your instincts to the Diner, where you find the ‘vette parked across the street. You know Michael and the boys routinely drag him out to entertainment these days—keeping his evenings busy, eventful. You know because you keep tabs on him through the extended family, and feel little remorse in doing so. If asked, he himself would never give you anything less than a fabulous account of his well-being, so you have to use other channels. No one exactly says the words, but you know that he’s lonely. As lonely as you are.

So you lean back against the ‘vette and you take out your cell and punch in his number. He answers on the third ring and his voice is the most beautiful sound you have ever heard in your life. Hey, he breathes, and you ask him to come out to the ‘vette. The surprised pause only lasts three seconds before you hear the muted fuck, move! on the line, as he makes his way out of the booth probably blocked by either Michael or Em. And then he’s out of the Diner and in the warm spring night, standing right in front of you.

You watch the smile slowly spread across his face and you know it matches the grin on your own, and then he takes two strides and suddenly you’re in his arms—your back pressed against the ‘vette’s door, his mouth pressed against yours. His lips are soft and moist, and you breathe in his scent, letting it warm your insides, as you kiss him hard and frantic—making up for all the emptiness of the past four weeks.

When he pulls back and his questioning eyes look into yours, you smile and stroke your fingers through his hair. “I told you we’re going to see each other all the time,” you say, and the answering flicker in his eyes makes your throat turn tight. He remembers, of course, the promise you made to him. And suddenly you have your answer. His loneliness has been as real, as achingly deep as your own.

That night he lays you down under the muted lights above his bed, covers your body with his, and worships you with his lips and his mouth and his hands. You moan and arch against him, your body aching for his touch, as his hands wander your arms and legs and stomach, and his mouth travels down your body—his tongue laving a path from your neck down to your chest, past your sternum, dipping in your navel, and finally wrapping around your throbbing cock. He milks you for all you’re worth and after you’ve come inside his throat from the most amazing blowjob you’ve gotten in over a month, he grabs your hips, wraps your legs around his waist and slowly slips inside you.

He fucks you hard and fast, panting in your face, his silky dark hair plastered over his forehead. He stares into your eyes, watching you closely, his eyes twinkling with emotions you have only recently started to read in them—pain, anguish, loss, hope—and when you pull at his shoulders to bring him down into a kiss, he obliges, letting you plunder his sweet mouth with your desperate tongue. His hips piston against yours faster and faster and when his teeth tug at your upper lip, you moan and come again, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard at the strands—and he soon follows you into his own release, sighing your name against your neck.

You feel depleted, broken, devastated and you want nothing more than to crawl into his arms and tell him you can’t do this, that you can’t be without him. You want to say that he must let you come back, please let me come back. And just as your arms tighten around his neck and the sob builds in your chest, you feel his long fingers running through your hair soothingly, and his lips brush against your hairline and then he’s looking into your eyes—his gaze loving, steady.

"You’re going to be all right, Justin," he tells you. "Always know this: we made the right decision. Never doubt yourself. You are destined to go places no one has ever gone before and I know that everything will be just fine." A sad, rueful smile tugs at his lips and then his eyes sparkle with hope. "Christ, you’re going to be absolutely fantastic—I know it."

And that’s when you know you can’t come back. Not before you’ve fulfilled your ‘destiny’. He’s wrong. You and he didn’t make the decision. Only you did. You decided to get out into the world and make a career for yourself.

And you must finish what you started.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Ginelli_

You knew making it in New York would not be an easy task and you’re not surprised to find that you were right about that.

You had, however, made some contacts while in Pittsburgh, many of them courtesy of Lindsay. So when weeks have passed and you are tired of struggling, you finally decide to use the names in your little black book—and find yourself at a small gallery on 57th Street.

The owners are a middle-aged married couple named Vincent and Maria Ginelli, both in their late fifties, who started this gallery twenty-two years ago and who are now looking for someone to help them manage their small establishment. You meet them and they love you at first sight. As it turns out, they have a son in the Navy exactly your age, whose current posting has him stuck on a freighter somewhere off the coast of Turkey, and who hasn’t been home for five months. Maria Ginelli says, you remind her of him and they want you to start right away.

That night you call to tell him of your new job, and he laughs on the phone. “What did I tell you?” he asks. “I knew you’d be fine, Sunshine. You always are.”

And you want to tell him that you miss him and that you wish he were there with you or that you were in the loft with him. But you don’t. You know the task before you. You have to succeed, you have to prove that you indeed will be fine.

This is only the first step. The first step in finding your way back to the man you love.

The man you’re determined not to lose. Ever again.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Fiber_

You always knew that he loved you. You knew before he ever caught a clue himself. You knew during the breathtaking highs of your non-relationship, and you knew during the soul-crushing lows. It showed in the way he looked at you, and in the things he did for you, even when he couldn’t say the words.

You would be a liar if you didn’t admit that you also lost sight of this pertinent fact a couple of times during the past five years or so. Thankfully, you always came to your senses before it was too late.

But you can also feel that it’s different this time. That he is different. He’s more open and vulnerable and although you suspect that he always was vulnerable with you, this is the first time he has let you see it willingly.

And seeing him vulnerable and open fills you with a tenderness you never felt before, and at the same time scares you shitless. Because this time you know the reins of your entwined lives are in your hands and you must not fuck this up.

When Brian Kinney finally scaled down the walls around his heart and bared his soul to you, he meant it with every fiber of his being. He did everything you knew he was capable of and gave everything they said he would never give you. He opened up his heart and told you he loved you and then never went back inside the shell again.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Fool_

You find it heartwarming to realize that, for some inexplicable reason, your mom has sort of adopted him.

She was the only one who made an attempt to talk sense into you, in that roundabout way she employs when it concerns your love life, the last time you walked out on him. Your mom: Brian Kinney’s defender. It might have been funny if you had been coherent enough to actually recognize her tactic for what it was at the time: a mother’s concern for her son making the wrong decision about the right person. Like you said, it might have been funny.

Now, though, it only leaves you with a feeling of respite, like having found a port in the middle of the waves of uncertainty. Knowing that your mother is making sure your lover knows he’s part of the Taylor fold, even if the resident Taylor is on a career hunt elsewhere, is a reassurance you desperately needed.

She tells you that she now recognizes Brian for the man he is. He’s the man who was always there for her son whenever he needed him. He’s the man who’s probably the only one who has ever loved her son unconditionally, and never expected anything in return.

She says she’d be a fool not to keep him close this time.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_New York_

The first time he shows up in New York after you made it your home is exactly six months and fourteen hours to the day you left.

He says it’s for business and that he’s scoping out some big name clients that had been pursuing Kinnetik for the past few months. And you know it’s true. Kinnetik has made a reputation for itself as the quintessential boutique ad firm from Pittsburgh and is now being tracked by the bigwigs from across the nation. And it’s all because of Brian Kinney; the Clio winning, hard playing, advertising star with his own success story. He’s the coolest thing to come out of Gay Pittsburgh and you know that if there is anyone who can cater to the big names in the business industry, it’s Kinnetik.

But you also know that a big part of why he came to spend two weeks in New York City and kept the nights open for you was because he wanted to spend time with you. He even spent two nights in your one-room hovel—it’s too small and crappy to be called an apartment—in Greenwich Village, which you can now just barely afford with the paycheck from Ginelli’s. After that, you couldn’t exactly refuse him when he dragged you to the Luxury suite he’d booked at the Marmara for his stay.

Not that you wanted to complain very much.

Gorgeous rooms. 24-hour room delivery and concierge. Spacious bathroom with in-house Jacuzzi. A Rooftop lounge with a breathtaking view of Manhattan from its 360 degrees wraparound terrace.

Nope, not much room for complaining there.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Superhero_

57th Street is a Hub of famous art galleries in New York City. And you make sure Brian knows this fact by dragging him to all your favorite places one weekend. St. Etienne. Norma Haime. Danese. It’s a testament to his utter patience and fondness for what you do that he lets you indulge to your heart’s content. You’re also immensely pleased to see him fascinated with the works from Gornik’s and Weegee’s collections, but of course he has always had an eye for good art. That’s what makes him such a good ad man.

The next weekend, he makes sure you understand where he stands in the context of true entertainment by dragging you to all the top gay bars and night clubs—both in the Village and beyond. And you let him, because you could never tire of dancing away the night as long as his arms are around you—especially if half the patrons in the clubs watch you enviously and don’t even get a raised brow from him in return.

Brian finds Greenwich village both amusing and entertaining. He makes endless fun of your choice of living in the bohemian gay-friendly nucleus so very popular with the nonconformists of the West and says he never thought he’d see you as a pretentious artsy type. You tell him he should’ve known your snob origins—you’re the ultimate country club gay boy who came out in high school with a literal bang, helped bring a corrupt and homophobic politician down, joined a gun-toting gay vigilante group and then went to Hollywood to make a movie based on a gay superhero. You’ve always been a pretentious artsy type.

Brian only snorts at this and pulls you close with an arm around your shoulders, as you smile and steer him towards the Washington Square Arch.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Christmas_

The first Christmas after you leave Pittsburgh comes with only one week of holidays and a promise to the Ginelli’s that yes, you’d be back before New Year to help them prepare for the Morris Hirschfield exhibition coming up on the sixth.

The week goes by in a blur. Brian has always said that he’s not much for Christmas but he only half-glares at your knowing smile as he lets you haul him from dinner at your mom’s, to a midnight cap at Michael’s, and then Christmas feast the next day at Deb’s—where all your friends and family are invited.

There’s Babylon too, and the Christmas Under the Sea theme is a hit with all the patrons—a Christmas tree decorated with faux seaweed and seashell garland, and mermans and scuba-diving hunks dancing over the catwalks and stands. As in New York, Brian only has eyes for you—and you can’t imagine life being any better.

But the last night of your stay in Pittsburgh, Brian surprises you with a visit to the House. You are at once thrilled and agonized to be there. It is the place he bought for you, to make you happy, to seal his fortunes with you—once and for all. And it is one of the things you left behind when you left for New York.

It starts snowing hard by the time you reach the place and he grabs your hand firmly as he locks the car and both of you hurry inside with the bags of groceries and hot takeout food.

As he turns on the lights and your eyesight adjusts, you realize the hallways are no longer empty or filled with old dusty furniture covered with sheets. You can see he has taken time to work on some of the rooms, and the furniture has at once his Brian stamp of modern taste and yet is nothing like what he has at the loft. Warm rugs that go with the mahogany of the walls cover the wooden floors. Dark leather sofa sits snugly in front of the gently crackling fire. And a fully equipped kitchen with all the modern amenities you could need. Even at the loft, when you only saw Brian cook three times in all the years you’ve known him, he always kept a perfect kitchen.

"The bedroom isn’t finished yet," he says, taking you out of your thoughts. You turn to look at him, hearing the wind blowing hard outside the window, and the look on his face is of calm anticipation. "There are clean sheets and blankets in the closet. We can sleep in here."

You walk over to him and taking his face in your palms, you kiss him softly on the lips and the chin and the nose. "Yeah, but first you have to feed me." You smile, watching him smile at you in return. "I am starved."

The two of you settle on the couch in front of the whispering fire, ensconced in layers of soft blankets, and feed each other shrimps and fried wontons from the takeout cartons. After that, you just snuggle together, listening to the hissing winds, and tell each other ghost stories, and laugh—remembering Michael’s hissy fits over Hunter’s antics at the party on Monday.

Later on, you push him back into the nest of blankets, and slowly suck him off. His fingers tangle in the strands of your hair and you hum around his beautiful cock, tracing his throbbing vein with your tongue--his taste filling your senses, intoxicating you.

After he comes, you wrap your arms around his waist, rest your cheek against his thigh, and vow never to lose this place ever again.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Dragons_

Yes, he kept the rings and the House.

It is this act that showed you he has kept alive the hope that one day you and he would be together for good. The act that not only told you the ball’s in your court now, but also that he’s a willing participant in the game this time.

That he’s not running, not hiding anymore.

But every time you leave him to go back to NY, to go back to the art and the shows and the hunt—or he leaves you to go back to the Pitts, back to the same ol’ grind of meetings and clubs and work and the gang—he lays you down on the bed, looks into your eyes, entwines his fingers with yours, and makes love to you as if doing it for the very last time.

And you don’t know why that is. You don’t know how to deal with it. And you can’t beat the bleakness that pervades your being at that moment.

Even after six years of loving him and knowing him and being flabbergasted by him and being given everything that you ever asked for to the extent that you feel yes, you’ve finally slayed all the dragons and know his heart and his soul, he does something that makes you realize that he will always be the most beautiful and the most irritatingly enigmatic creature you will ever come across.

Sometimes you wonder if that’s a blessing or a curse.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Business_

Right after New Year’s, Brian gets busy with campaigns for a couple of new clients and you don’t hear from him for several weeks except for an email he drops every weekend when he has some spare time to focus on something other than a poster or a story board or a new slogan. He tells you that Remsen has been calling him as well, begging to be taken back, but that if he chooses to work with him again, he would at least make him squirm for a few weeks.

Things are happening at your end as well. After the Ginelli’s went through your portfolio, they were so thrilled by whatever promise they saw in you that they gave you exclusive use of the studio on the first floor at the back of the gallery and you’ve been painting like crazy since then. The ideas come to you in the middle of the night, when you’re lying in your bed, missing Brian’s touch—and what you can’t finish at your apartment, you drag to the studio and work on during breaks at the gallery.

Your new portfolio is coming along nicely and with Vincent’s intervention, you are soon approached by a few galleries, specifically focusing on young and emerging artistes, who are interested in showing your work—and you’re ecstatic by this development.

"Honey, I am so happy for you," your mother gushes when you call her that night to tell her.

"Wow, Justin," Daphne squeals. "This is totally awesome!"

"I told you, Sunshine," Brian smiles over the phone from Chicago, where he is currently stuck in presentations for one of Brown’s campaigns. "The sky’s the limit."

You bite your lip. "But I have to finish at least fifteen canvases in the next two months, out of which they’ll choose something like five."

"You’ll do fine," he assures you. "Tell Vincent to give you some extra time."

"He already agreed." You smile. "He and Maria seem even more excited than I am."

"See, I told you!" Brian repeats. "You’re going to be just fine."

You hope he is right and then you remember the reason why he’s in Chicago. "How’re the presentations coming along?"

“Boring and tedious, but of course Leo loved them,” he drawls. “I also met three other companies and will probably have to come back to pitch to them over the next couple of weeks.”

You’re happy to know that Brian will be keeping busy over the next few weeks. This way, you decide, that if you miss a couple of your trips to Pittsburgh in the next two months, you won’t feel too guilty.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_The show_

However, when March comes, you find Brian still busy with the new accounts. In fact, he has been going out of Pittsburgh so often that the last time you took two days off to go home and thought you’d surprise him by showing up unannounced, he wasn’t even there.

"Shit, Justin, you should’ve told me," he answers the phone from San Francisco, when you call his cell from the loft. "Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?"

"I thought I’d surprise you since I couldn’t make it the last time." You sigh. "I had no idea you weren’t going to be in town."

"If I had known..."

"What?" You snort. "You couldn’t have cancelled the meetings. You had to be there."

“No, but I could’ve tried… moving them.”

"Yeah, right." You snort again, as you let yourself fall over the bed and watch the ceiling. "The Invitrogen people gave you a timeslot and you would’ve asked them to move it. Sure." You’re not that clueless little kid anymore who thought fucking romance takes precedence over business. Romance is for shit anyways. Unless it’s coming in unexpected ways from Brian Kinney.

"Twat." He huffs fondly.

"It’s okay." You sigh. "You do your thing and dazzle them. Just..." You pause.

"What?"

"Try to make it for my show." You swallow hard.

"Wouldn’t miss it for the world," he says with a smile in his voice. "The twenty-second, right?"

"Yep." Just three weeks from now. You smile at his promise and breathe a little easier.

Of course, life has a way of screwing you over in ways you never imagined possible.

By the time the twenty-second rolls around, Kinnetik’s San Francisco clients are nipping at Brian’s heels, demanding they want the preliminary designs done now and not a moment later. You receive Brian’s frustrated phone calls from the client’s San Francisco offices and listen to him try to juggle the projects in the impossibly short timeframes they’ve been given. Of course, they wouldn’t be global giants if they didn’t think the whole fucking world revolved around them. But when Brian tells you fuck this, he’s bringing Theodore in and going back to the Pitts because they can snap at Ted’s ankles and leave him the fuck alone, you tell him to stop.

"It’s business, Brian." You swallow your disappointment and try to talk sense into him. "You can’t fuck with that."

"Justin..."

"I know they’re difficult. But you are an expert at dealing with difficult people all the fucking time."

"Difficult, my ass. They’re pretentious assholes."

"Well then, you should be used to that. You lived with me for years." You smile. "Your very own pretentious artsy type."

He snorts and then sighs over the phone. "Fuck, Justin."

"It’s going to be all right," you reassure him, trying to quell the swell of frustration that is attempting to take over your own mood. "Just wish me luck."

The opening night of your show at George Adams Gallery, you find yourself surrounded by friends and family. Lindsay and Mel spoke to you on the phone this afternoon, apologetic for not being able to make it because of Gus’ school, but supportive all the same. The rest of them are here, however. Your mother flew over with Molly and Daphne the previous evening. Emmett drove Deb and Carl this morning, while Michael and Ben took the afternoon flight. Ted is, of course, in San Francisco with Brian.

The response to your pieces is more than encouraging, the art crowd is buzzing with excitement about the new arrival, and it humbles you. The only thing missing is Brian, of course, but you can’t be upset at that, and you won’t allow anyone else to make you upset about it either. Everyone sips champagne and eats caviar and makes appropriate noises of sympathy at his absence—everyone except Deb, of course, who feels it’s her obligation to call Brian on his shit for giving precedence to his business over yours. You politely and humbly ask her to can it, please. You completely understand why he couldn’t make it, you tell her as you hand her another caviar tart, and you certainly don’t want anyone giving him any shit over something he couldn’t control.

The joke’s on them, however, because an hour before the show is about to wrap, everyone’s eyes turn to the entrance and widen with surprise. Brian, you hear them say. And you turn around to watch him walk into the gallery, dressed in his best Armani—looking more beautiful than you’ve ever seen him.

You stand in the middle of the gallery, stunned at his appearance, as he comes over and wraps his arms around you.

"Hey Sunshine," he whispers in your ear, his voice husky. "Surprise!"

"But you were in," you stammer, "You said..."

"The afternoon meetings were cancelled until tomorrow because the CEO had to fly out to LA for a family emergency," he clarifies. "So I took the one-thirty flight. Came here straight from the airport. Couldn’t break a promise, now, could I?"

That’s when you notice the tiredness around his eyes. He’s been on a plane for six hours straight just to make an appearance at your first show in New York. Even though he’d been up for the past three nights working nonstop over the campaign with Ted and two other members of the Kinnetik team. You feel your throat tightening with gratitude.

"Thank you." You kiss him on his soft lips, and when he grins, you have to kiss him again because he’s here and he came and he just made your fucking night and you have never loved him more than you do at this moment. "When do you go back?"

"Flight’s at six-forty five am," he replies. "But you have me till then." And he kisses you on the side of your neck and you want to squeeze him and kiss him and possibly strip him and make love to him right there and then—but the entire gallery is looking at you and you know you have to make a good impression on your first show in the City, at least.

Besides, the look on Deb’s face is a mixture of pride and regret and you feel a thousand times better already. And like Brian said, you have him for the night. You can do with him as you please when the show ends.

As the night unfolds, you do a whole lot more.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Dream_

Seven of your paintings are exhibited at the show and all seven of them are sold out before the night is over.

With the money you get from the show, you are able to pay the lease for a slightly better apartment in a slightly better neighborhood in the Village, with an extra room—a room that gets beautiful sunlight through the windows and which you decide to use as a studio—and quickly move in.

One night when Brian is visiting you and you’re lying tangled in the bed with him, his head on your chest, as he lightly snores—his hot breath hitting your breastbone, his presence warming you as always—you soothe the soft skin on his back with your palm and construct a dream in your mind.

You dream of a beautiful apartment, or perhaps a townhouse, or maybe a luxurious condominium in a high-rise building in Manhattan—a place you’d call home with Brian. A place that you will share with him in all ways that count—when he no longer has to constantly take care of every little need you have. A place you’ll find when you’re both equals, professionally and personally—and Brian will be proud to call you his partner, his lover, his companion.

It’s a dream that fills you with hope and wonder. It’s the dream you left Pittsburgh to achieve

It is your goal, your ultimate destiny. And you swear never to lose sight of it.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Toronto_

You accompany Brian when he visits Gus during the summer.

The plan literally comes together within days—for him as well as for you. One moment you are wrapping up work at the gallery and there is a slight lull in activities before the next big show is to begin, when Brian calls you to ask if you could get away for a week. You know Gus has been asking for him a lot and the last time Brian saw him was at Christmas. Right now, he has about a week free and he doesn’t know when he’ll next be able to get out of engagements, so he really wants to go. And he wants you to come with him.

You ask Maria and miracle of miracles, she says yes, and the next morning the tickets for that afternoon’s flight to Toronto arrive at your desk. Brian joins you on the flight and you can’t think of a better reason to get out of work than to see Brian spend time with his son.

Gus is delighted to see his Dada and Lindsay is thrilled to see both of you. She has kept tabs on your progress at Ginelli’s and is very excited about the prospects that have opened up for you in the last six months. Mel is Mel; loving to you and barely tolerating Brian. But he doesn’t give a shit and you decide as long as she doesn’t do anything serious to hurt him, you won’t worry either. Besides, even she can’t deny the love he has for his son, or how much Gus adores his father.

Brian loves playing ball or catch with Gus, who himself is a very hyperactive child and loves being outdoors—always running around at full speed all over the backyard—and you can’t help but be caught in the middle of the two of them, rolling around in the dirt over Lindsay’s and Mel’s vociferous protests, and then jumping into the small wading pool in the backyard. It’s fun and happy and totally exhilarating—and it’s a side of Brian you’ve never seen before. You doubt anyone else has, either. Maybe Michael has, back in the days when they were fourteen or fifteen years old.

So you ignore Mel’s enraged yells and instead back up Gus and Brian as they play Water Limbo in the plastic pool and splash water all around the backyard. But the sun is shining and it’s hot and wonderful and the water feels great, and in the end, even Lindsay laughs and joins the three of you, while Mel stomps away fuming—and Brian kisses his son and laughs into your ears, yelling, life's good, Sunshine!

And you can’t help but tackle him back into the water and agree.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Los Angeles_

After the Invitrogen fiasco, you vowed never to let so much time go by without seeing Brian again.

Nevertheless, when September comes, Brian is stuck in LA with three new accounts and with the tired phone calls you receive from him late at night, you know he hardly has time to even scratch his head. You know you should be happy that he’s busy because you yourself are so engrossed with your work for the two upcoming shows, that you don’t even have time to think.

Before you know it, though, two months have passed—and you realize that the last time you saw Brian was in July. Whatever happened to the see-each other-at-least-once-every-month promise you made, you wonder—before it occurs to you that it was you who made the promise, not him.

You ask yourself if it’s always going to be like this from now on? Would it always be you running after Brian and trying to keep up with his schedule and making sure you got together with him?

And then you remember the night of your first show when he flew back from San Francisco to be with you for seven hours before flying back to attend the second day’s meetings—and you want to kick yourself for even doubting him. This has always been your problem. You always need constant reassurances that things are all right with you, that he is all right with you, that he is still on board and that he still loves you. Even though he has never doubted your love for him.

All you know is that you don’t want to doubt anymore. You just don’t. But when you call Kinnetik one afternoon to ask if the painting you had sent for Brian’s offices had been delivered, you find that neither Cynthia nor Ted are there and further enquiry reveals that they are both with Brian in LA for meetings. You put the phone down, thinking, of course, they are all out there. The boss has been flying to and fro from LA to Pittsburgh for the last two months so it must be important. They are there to support him.

But that night when you make a random call to your mother, she reveals that Brian and Ted are possibly looking for rental places to set up a small satellite office in LA to coordinate any future client queries. Brian’s California contacts have been growing by leaps and bounds and the clientele there has been most receptive to his campaigns.

And you wonder how come you never knew this. You want to ask your mom the same question. But then you stop because what the hell kind of relationship would she think you have with Brian if she thought you didn’t even know Brian was setting up offices in LA.

A satellite office, you remind yourself. Doesn’t mean he is relocating there. It’s only a relay office to cater to the immediate demands of his west coast clients.

Would be a fool not to keep him close this time, your mother’s words from months ago reverberate in your ears.

And you wonder which fool she really was talking about.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_The House_

Things calm down a little around Christmas and Brian takes advantage of the slight calm on the business horizon by inviting Lindsay, Mel, Gus and JR to spend Christmas with the two of you at the House.

More renovation has been going on in the last six months and if the place was beautiful before, now it’s turning out to be breathtakingly gorgeous. Not surprisingly, it’s your mother who has been keeping tabs on the renovations for Brian. She has contacts with many interior designers and renovators, and Brian trusts her instincts. He made you help him with the preliminary choices, though, and you were more than happy to assist him during trips to Pittsburgh.

You doubt the House would ever be a permanent home for either of you. It’s the kind of place you always dreamt of having as a holiday getaway. Somewhere you’d retreat to paint away during the summers, being too much of an urban creature yourself. Brian loves the city too much himself to ever want to live at a place like this for too long. But it’s his gift to you and you love it with all your being, and you are now happy to share it with Lindsay and Gus for the holidays.

Again, not surprisingly, Mel chooses to stay at Michael’s, citing JR as the reason—but you know that it’s because of Brian. She can tolerate Brian when the time calls for it, but no matter how much things change and how much time passes, she would never come and stay inside his domain of her own volition.

Brian doesn’t care because everything else comes together perfectly. Gus loves his room and the stables and the swings and Lindsay falls in love with the grounds and the pool and the studio.

On Christmas eve, you and Brian host the most magnificent party for your closest friends and family—the ones who matter anyway—and as you remember last year’s trip to the House, you wonder if every Christmas here would be as wonderful.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Italy_

In April, something happens that makes one of your biggest dreams come true for you.

Your life’s been hectic the last couple of months. You had a show in the middle of March and another one scheduled for the first week of April. Brian, in the meantime, has been traveling all over the US, pitching to newer and trendier clientele every day. In the last week of March, when you’re neck deep in canvases, getting ready to scream with nerves over the upcoming show, Brian shows up in NY for a day. Over dinner at Gobo’s, he asks how you’d like to accompany him to Italy.

You stare at him, slack jawed with shock. Italy, you ask, are you fucking kidding?

He grins. "Have you ever heard of a firm called B&B Italia?"

"Are you serious?" You snort. "Half the furniture at the loft probably comes from that place."

As it turns out, Brian is meeting with the top executives at the New York offices of the exclusive Italian Designer Furniture manufacturer. And if things go well for Kinnetik—and you are very well aware that when it comes to delivering professionally, things usually do go well for Kinnetik—he’s pretty sure they’ll call him to the Novedrate offices. Since the trip might take over a week to finish, he wants you to go with him.

“But I have a show next week.” You pout. “How would I be able to…”

He raises his hand to halt your progress. “Keep your pants on.” He grins. “Or don’t. But remember: it probably won’t happen until the fourth, so you have time. You’ll just be wrapping things up at the gallery so you can get away.” He notices the smile spreading on your face and raises his left eyebrow. “Just think of all the galleries and the museums and the art.”

“And the shopping,” you drawl and he chuckles in response—and you know this is a dream come true for him as well.

As it turns out, he gets called to Novedrate on the third and your show is on the sixth, so you can’t get away until the next morning. You finally join him that weekend at the B&B Italia Spa, the headquarters of the exclusive firm in Novedrate. They’ve arranged for a suite for the two of you at the company’s exclusive Villa on Lake Como and when you walk in there, it’s literally like walking into the lap of luxury. Lush, immaculately manicured green lawns, sparkling black stone floors, marble statuettes adorning the ceilings and the doorways, exquisitely decorated rooms, and staff to cater to your every need.

The meetings have obviously gone well and they’ve approved Brian’s proposal for the campaigns needed to introduce their 2007 designs in the US market. Cynthia will probably be coming with one of the Art Directors and his team sometime over the next couple of weeks. The management here can coordinate with the Kinnetik offices through their New York liaison, so things will likely happen fast during the next month.

Brian’s last meeting is on Sunday and the next morning, the two of you catch the train to Milan.

Milan is a beautiful city with much to explore and you have to see it with your own eyes to believe it. Climbing on top of the Piazza Duomo and looking out at the Alps from the rooftop, with the view of the entire city spread out before you. Shopping at the Fashion District—something which Brian had obviously looked forward to. And looking at some of Italy’s finest treasures of art, by masters like Rafael and Rembrandt, at the Pinacoteca di Brera.

You even make a two day stop in Venice, where you stay at a small but extremely beautiful hotel, and the memories of visiting Saint Mark’s Basilica, and making out with Brian on a gondola over the Grand Canal are etched forever in your mind.

Sometimes you feel that for all his denials and renunciations about never doing romance, Brian Kinney really is the most romantic man you’ve ever met.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. Chapter 2

_Chicago_

It’s the summer again and although Brian has made no more trips abroad, he has been traveling extensively in the States.

Gus came to stay with him at the House for a week in June, and you stayed with them for a weekend, but he had summer camp in July so he had to go back. He’s been growing up so fast. You can’t believe he’s almost seven years old already.

Both yours and Brian’s schedules have been hectic since then. His stays out of Pittsburgh have been getting longer and longer lately—some of them are in New York, but mostly it’s San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles and Chicago again. After Kinnetik’s 2007 Summer Campaign for Brown Athletics, their sales went up by thirty-two percent—which obviously made Leo Brown very happy. Most of those meetings, you suspect, have been with Brown in Chicago.

Then you are engaged for your first ever solo show at Adelson Galleries on 77th and things are on the roll once again.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Paris_

It is October now and you can’t believe how fast the last three months have gone.

You spent July and August doing nothing but painting and painting and more painting, and occasionally eating something when you got too hungry. You saw Brian twice during this entire time—one, of course, was his appearance at the solo show last month—which went fabulously well, if you do say so yourself. You can’t complain about Brian, however, because it was him who made the first trip to see you on that free weekend as well. You know he’s been up to his ears himself with proposals and mockups for the new campaigns.

Knowing that, however, doesn’t help ease the loneliness.

Kinnetik has acquired dozens of new clients in the last two years but Brian doesn’t want to forget those few original ones that gave him support when he was just starting. So he has hired two new Art Directors and has put them in charge of focusing on the older clients these days.

And now that you’re done with your show and there is a gap before the next event, and you think you will finally take a breather—you get a call from a liaison at the US Embassy. You sit down in shock and listen to them as they inform you that some of your artwork has been selected for the AIEP, otherwise known as Art in the Embassies Program, and they would like to know if you’d be willing to attend a three-week workshop in Paris as part of the program.

That night when you call Brian, he is overjoyed. "What did I tell you?" he laughs.

Yeah, yeah, you smile—he did tell you. But it’s Paris, Brian, you sigh, fucking Paris.

"Think of all the cathedrals," he says, "And the museums. And the galleries. You’ll have a fabulous time."

"Will you come to see me?" you ask him. Both of your schedules have been so hectic lately that the only sure thing you could plan for was the Christmas getaway at the House. Brian had promised to definitely make that, and you’d vowed to keep him to his promise. No one dares fuck with you plans at the House.

"I don’t know, Justin," he says. "You’ll only be gone for three weeks. I am not sure I can get away during the entire next month."

"But it’s Paris, Brian," you repeat, your voice suddenly quiet.

"Yeah, I know, Sunshine," he replies softly.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_The award_

As it turns out, Brian is not able to make it to Paris.

However, in the last week of November—just when your workshop is about to end in Paris—he comes to London, to receive an award from the London International Advertising Awards. Kinnetik wins Best use of Illustration for a Brown Athletics campaign and the entire top management from the firm, which includes Brian, Cynthia, Ted and Andrew Wiley—one of the new Art Directors—are there to receive it.

You manage to wrap things up at AIEP, and fly over to London right in time to attend the ceremony held at the Carlton. The award is a very highly recognized industry standard and winning it has undoubtedly given Kinnetik the kind of push it needed to make further inroads into the international arena.

As you enter the reception hall, you’re dressed in your new Hugo Boss and Brian’s eyes light up when he sees you. He’s, of course, impeccably dressed in the latest Armani and looks drop dead gorgeous. His name is called to receive the award, and you feel so damn proud of him, you could burst. When asked to speak, Brian is as always eloquent and articulate and the crowd takes to him immediately.

It’s when the ceremony ends, and you’re mingling with the Kinnetik group at the reception, drinking champagne from the tall flutes, that you hear Cynthia say something about Leo Brown being thrilled with Kinnetik’s Chicago offices opening soon.

Chicago, you freeze. Did she say Chicago? Why, it’s your mom who’s been helping us with looking at real estate, Cynthia smiles. Your mom has great taste, Justin—she says, I love her choices.

You turn to look at Brian but he’s not looking into your eyes. You watch his eyes dart from his plate to his glass to the table in front of him, and you try to grab his arm to get his attention. Brian—you say, what’s going on?

Shhh, says Ted as the emcee begins another announcement on the podium, be quiet.

And the moment is lost.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Kinnetik_

"But why Chicago, mom?" You ask your mother when you get home. Brian barely stayed in the US for three days before he had to go to Sydney for a series of meetings with a large Australian manufacturing concern. "I don’t get it. First it was Los Angeles. Now, it’s Chicago. Why the fuck would he want to relocate to Chicago?"

"He has major clients in Chicago, honey." Your mother’s voice is quiet.

"But he has major clients in many cities, mom. San Francisco. Fucking Milan. New York." You are nearly spitting with hurt and disappointment. "He was supposed to come to New York. It has always been his dream to work in New York. Why would he not do that, now that he’s got the money and the opportunity?"

"Justin, why are you saying all this to me?" she asks.

"Because you’re the one who’s been…. helping him do this, you’ve been fucking planning his move behind my back!" Your voice rises in volume.

"Behind your back?" your mother replies, her voice awed. "No one has been planning anything behind your back, Justin. You have seen how Brian’s career has progressed in the last three years. You’ve kept tabs on everything in his life, just as he’s known everything that has happened to you."

"But I have obviously never kept track of this aspect of his career," you reply, feeling helpless. "He was supposed to move to New York, mom."

"To tell you the truth, he has looked at property in New York, he just never made a decision on those," she says. "But let me ask you something, have you ever asked him what he wants to do?"

"What do you mean?" You feel flabbergasted.

"Have you ever asked him about New York?"

"What do you mean, mom?" you groan. "Everyone knows Brian wants to move to New York. That’s always been his dream. What could possibly be standing in his way now?"

Your mother is quiet for so long, you think she’s dropped the line. And when she replies, she just says three words.

"Talk to him."

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Newsbreak_

The announcement comes as a Developing Story on the local news station, when you’re at the small diner across from Ginelli’s on your lunch break. You squint at the small television screen, trying to catch what all the commotion is about.

The words plane crash, Liberty Air, Sydney and Los Angeles come through the airwaves, and the sandwich you’ve just paid for slips from your fingers as you stare at the screen in shock, your heart hammering in your chest.

Liberty Air Flight IK709 from Sydney, Australia to Los Angeles, California, has disappeared from the radars, the newsman says, and you turn on your heels and stumble out of the diner, your fingers grappling with your cell-phone, punching in Brian’s number.

Please, please, answer the phone, you pray, your heart in your throat, please God, make him answer the phone. But you only get a busy signal.

You reach the gallery out of breath and call Kinnetik from the landline and get a busy signal. Fuck, why won’t anyone answer the phone? You try again, and again, and again, until you finally get through.

"Cynthia!" You say. "What is the number of the flight Brian is on?"

There is silence on the line.

"Cynthia, which flight is it?"

"Justin..."

"Which flight?" you yell.

"Justin," she says. "Brian was supposed to be on the flight that went down."

The only thing you hear inside your head is your own voice going no, no, no, as you put the phone down. Your vision is suddenly blurry and you can’t hear anything except the upheaval within your head and the thundering beat of your heart—as you walk back out of the gallery, ignoring Maria’s voice calling your name, the cell-phone in your hand on constant redial for the same number. Brian, you repeat to yourself, Brian, please answer.

Somehow you find your way back to your apartment and as you blindly reach out to turn on the television, you grab the phone book to find the Liberty Air enquiry number. You get on their emergency line and are put on a hold for several minutes before you get through.

I am calling about the Flight IK709 coming from Sydney, you tell them—what is the status of that flight? Status unknown at the moment, sir—you get the message. As soon as we have further information, you’re told, there will be an announcement.

And the line is cut off. You stare at the phone in your hand disbelievingly. They fucking cut you off. You think about smashing the receiver against the wall, when you remember Liberty Air is Brian’s client. Kinnetik has to have some contacts.

You call Cynthia again and this time when you get through, you force her to give you the number of Kinnetik’s highest contact at the airline. She seems flabbergasted at your queries but gives you the number.

"Sam Walston," you say when you get the guy on the phone. "This is Justin Taylor calling on behalf of Kinnetik’s Brian Kinney. I am his partner and I need your help in getting an update on Flight IK709."

Sam turns out to be a cooperative man, who gets along greatly with Brian and is more than happy to help you. You ask him to confirm the passenger list and he does, and the answer he gives you turns your world even blacker than before.

Brian was on the flight. He checked in at the airport and is on the passenger list.

"However," Sam says, "There has been no clarification so far on what happened to the flight. According to last reports, it just disappeared from the radar. I am sorry, Mr. Taylor, that usually means…"

"Thank you, Sam." You interrupt him in the middle. "Please let me know if you hear anything else."

Just as you put the phone down, it starts ringing again.

"Brian?" You answer eagerly into the mouthpiece.

"Justin?" It’s your mother. "Are you okay?"

"Mom, have you heard from Brian?" You ask her. "I’ve been trying to call him but there’s no answer on his cell." For some reason, your voice sounds strange to your ears, dull and muted, as if you’re speaking from the bottom of a well. "I think he’s been trying to get in touch but there’s something wrong with my cell."

"Honey..." Your mother speaks quietly, her voice suddenly grave. "Justin, do you need me to come over?"

"No, mom, everything’s okay," you reassure her. "I am pretty sure Brian is all right. I just called Liberty Air and they said there has been no update on the flight status as yet, but that doesn’t mean anything is wrong. You’ll see, Brian will be fine and he’ll call me soon."

"Justin, what are you...?"

"He said he’d spend Christmas with me at the House, mom." You tell her patiently, as if explaining to a three year old. "And you know Brian never breaks a promise."

"Justin..." she starts but you cut the line in mid-sentence. You don’t have time to soothe your frantic mother at the moment. You have to keep the line free for other important calls. Brian is all right. He has to be all right. And he might be trying to get in touch with you.

But no one wants to give either of you a break. The phone rings nonstop from that point onwards. Deb, Michael, Ted, Daphne, Emmett, your mom. Even Mel and Lindsay from Toronto. It seems everyone wants to call you and talk to you—trying to talk sense into you. As if you’re a lunatic, a nutcase. Fuck you all, you want to scream.

Honey, are you all right?—they ask. Baby, do you want us to come over?—they want to know. No, mom, I am fine—you tell them. No, Em, you don’t need to come over—you reassure them. And would you please stop calling, I am trying to pay attention to the news reports.

But CNN has the disappeared-from-the-radars report playing on an endless loop and everywhere else it’s just confusion and chaos. You will your cell to ring. Please, Brian, please call me.

The landline rings constantly off the hook but it’s never Brian on the line. And after Michael calls for the fifth time, saying that you need to calm down, you scream at him to fucking get off the line. "Brian may be trying to get in touch with me, you moron. Stop hogging the line!"

NBC is talking about possible terrorist connections and you think you will go crazy if you listen to this pandemonium anymore.

The phone rings again and you pick up the receiver and scream into it. "Michael, I told you to stop calling me."

But it’s not Michael on the phone.

"Mr. Taylor," its Sam Walston. "I’ve got an update on Flight IK709. It seems they suffered some engine malfunction and the plane had to make an emergency landing on a small island off the coast of Panama."

Panama. Brian’s plane has been found. He’s all right.

Sam continues, "There was a small explosion on board, not related to any terrorist activity, and there seem to be some casualties and injuries... but we don’t have the names of the affected passengers as yet."

"Where in Panama?" You hear yourself ask.

"The plane landed on a small island called Coiba on the southern coast of Panama, but we believe all the passengers are being brought to Panama City."

"Give me your contact’s name and number there," you request him. "I need to find a flight to Panama City."

"Mr. Taylor, let me know when you want to leave. I’ll make sure there are tickets in your name when you reach the Liberty Air desk at JFK."

"Right away,” you tell him. “I want to leave right away."

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Canal Zone_

The flight, which takes nearly nine hours to reach Panama City, lands at Tocumen International at six-thirty in the morning.

You’d found your tourist card waiting for you with your tickets, and thus face no further delays at the entry point. You find the Liberty Air contact, Carlos, waiting for you at the immigrations.

“Come this way, Mr. Taylor,” he says. “The City Hospital is twelve miles away and the traffic will soon get very congested.”

Hospital. You bite your lip as you try to bring your breathing under control. There were injuries during the explosion. That’s why they had to take all the passengers to the hospital to check everyone out. Doesn’t mean every single one of them is hurt. It’s just standard procedure.

You turn to Carlos. “Any updates on the names of the passengers that are not hurt?”

“No sir,” he replies. “The last communiqué I received, the authorities were still bringing in the last of the passengers from Isla De Coiba. It is a small island and has no airport so they had to ferry the passengers first to the mainland,” he explains. “At Santa Catalina, they started boarding them on small planes that operate on domestic flights and bringing them to the Air Force base here in the city.”

You take in a struggling breath and lean back on the seat, trying not to chew out your lips with worry. It’s only around seven-thirty in the morning and the roads are already filled with cars and colorful buses and bicycles. The sun is hot outside, the weather dry and sultry. It’s the start of the tourist season in Panama, one of the places everyone dreams about coming to once in their life, but the last thing on your mind right now is white beaches or palm trees.

You have to find Brian. He has to be all right. He has to be okay.

The car stops at Hospital Nacional and taking a deep breath, you step out of the car and follow Carlos inside.

And step into pandemonium.

The hallways are lined with the sick and the injured and as Carlos locates the official desk and starts enquiring about the Liberty Air passengers, you realize things are worse than you expected.

In the area that has been cordoned off for patients arriving from the plane, the sights that greet you fill you with sickness and dread. Bleeding men, women and children, some with scorched faces and broken arms—lying in cots along the walls, moaning with pain. You walk over to a doorway and look inside the room and find it filled with bodies being covered with white sheets.

Brian, you want to scream. Where are you, Brian?

You try to get Carlos’s attention who you find arguing with an official in Spanish. Where is the list of the passengers?—you ask him. And then you turn to the official. The passengers list, you urge. Where is it?

“Brian Kinney!” You tell them. “I am looking for Brian Kinney. Tall. American. Dark Hair. Have you seen him?”

But no one seems to understand a word you’re saying.

The sound of a woman wailing in front of a burnt body riddles your consciousness and you suddenly feel the whole world closing in on you. No, no, no, not Brian. You feel the sob forming in your chest and stagger back against the wall. Not Brian. You feel your fingers curl into a fist, your nails digging into your palms. Not Brian, you bite your lips and taste blood, oh God, please, not Brian.

And that’s when you see him. In the far end of the hallway, he’s being settled down on a cot, as a nurse tends to his face. His face. Your breath catches in your throat as you struggle to stand up straight, and for a moment you think that his face is burnt. It’s dark and smudgy and the nurse is putting something over his eyebrow. And then your vision clears and you realize it’s only soot.

Brian, you want to call out. But you voice is stuck in your throat and you can’t even make a sound.

So you push yourself to your feet and make your way into the crowd—rushing towards him. Brian, you want to scream. And as if he can hear you, he looks up right at that moment and his eyes widen with shock when he recognizes you.

"Justin!" He stands up and you’re suddenly right there and you grab his shoulders and pull him to you, hugging him tightly. "Justin!" he repeats.

"Brian." You finally manage to get out, your voice barely audible. "Brian!" You take in his appearance, his beautiful eyes tired, his beloved face smudged with black soot and scratchy with stubble. "Are you...?"

"I’m fine." He shakes his head. "Just inhaled some smoke. That’s all. I’m fine"

"Brian..." The overwhelming relief that permeates your whole being at that moment is devastating and absolutely complete, as the sobs you’d been trying to swallow earlier suddenly wrack your whole frame. “Brian…” You feel your arms and legs give away and if it weren’t for the fact that Brian was holding you, you’re sure you would’ve fallen down.

"Justin..."

"Brian." You kiss his face over and over again, as tears roll down your cheeks unabashedly.

"Shh, Justin..." He soothes you, his fingers running gently through your hair as he kisses your forehead. "It’s okay, I am okay."

You feel your cell-phone vibrating inside your pocket and take it out with shaking hands. You check the display and it’s your mother. Of course, she’s worried about you. You barely spoke two sentences to her about Panama before you turned off the cell and boarded your plane. You have to tell her Brian’s okay.

But when you press the talk button, you find your breath caught in your throat and you can barely speak and you’re crying so hard that the only words that come out are Mom and Brian and God.

And then Brian has taken the cell from your hands and is talking to her, telling her that yes, he is all right and that you’re all right and that he’s got you.

You’re still in a daze as Carlos comes and speaks to Brian, enquiring about his injuries. He says he’s fine but the nurse points to his right arm and you realize that Brian does have a small burn that needs to be taken care of. It’s nothing, he insists, as they bandage his wrist and you tell him to be quiet as you trace a finger down his right cheek, urging your heart to stop beating so fast.

Back in the car, as you head towards a hotel room that has been arranged by Liberty Air for the passengers, you lean your head against his right shoulder. You press your cheek to the small patch of bare skin above his open collar and feel his steady pulse throb against you.

Your hand reaches out for his. "Is that how you felt after the bomb when you were looking for me?"

Brian is quiet for a moment and then he interlinks his fingers through yours and breathes out. "More or less."

"I kept calling and calling," you tell him. "But there was no reply on your cell phone."

"Don’t have my cell with me," he replies. "I think I put it in the overhead compartment in the hurry, in my shaving kit. Never got a chance to get it out."

At the hotel, Carlos leaves the two of you in your room with the request that you rest up before the flight home tonight.

You find shaving gear in the bathroom and hand it over to Brian, who goes inside to clean up. You stand in the bathroom doorway and watch him as he splashes water over his face and chest, before stripping and stepping under the shower. You watch him for a moment, the spray hitting his overturned face, before you take off your own clothes and join him. You find a clean sponge on the ledge, which you lather with the bar of soap, and then gently wash down his chest and arms and back—kissing every inch of his skin until he’s flushed with arousal. Then you get down on your knees and take his cock in your mouth, licking and kissing and sucking it—until his fingers tangle in your hair and he comes with a heartfelt groan.

It’s a little later, when you’ve both had food from the room service and are lying inside the warm duvets covering the bed—your head lying on Brian’s stomach—that you hear him murmur in an amazed voice.

"I can’t believe you’re actually here."

You look up at his face, noting the wonder on his face, and slowly sit up. You don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re tired and have just gone through an experience that can only be termed as sheer trauma. Or perhaps it is the nine fucking sleepless hours you’ve just spent on the flight from New York to Panama city. You have no clue. All you know is that you’re on edge right now, and every little thing anyone says makes a big fucking difference. And it’s even more pronounced when that someone is Brian.

You look at him curiously. "Why, Brian? If it had been me, wouldn’t you be here?"

He blinks. "Of course."

"Then why won't you believe the same of me?"

Your voice has suddenly risen, you realize, and he notices it. After seven years, he had to have gotten pretty adept at handling your moods. "Justin," he says calmly. "I do believe."

Even his calm frays on your nerves. "Do you really?" All the doubts of the past few months that have been plaguing your mind come rushing to the front. "Do you believe in me, Brian? Do you believe in us?"

He stares at you quietly, his face suddenly unreadable. "What are you talking about?"

And you hate that he can make his emotions inaccessible with just a blink of an eye. You bite your lips. "Do you think there is an us, Brian?"

"What?" He frowns. "You know I do. How can you even ask me such a thing?"

You grit your teeth. "Because you do things that make me wonder if you really, truly do."

"Spell it out to me, will you?" He’s annoyed now. "I am feeling a little dazed at the moment." And you remember that you’re not the only one who’s been through a trauma. "I have no clue what the fuck you’re talking about."

You try to lower your volume. "Chicago, Brian," you tell him. "I am talking about Chicago. What the fuck are you doing thinking of relocating Kinnetik there when you could be… in New York." You feel yourself scowling. "New York, Brian. Your dream. What happened to that dream?"

He suddenly smiles sadly, a sigh escaping his throat. "I haven’t stopped dreaming, Sunshine." His voice is husky.

"Then why Chicago?" you demand.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes suddenly filling with all that pain, all that loss and hurt and hope and love that he had finally opened up for you to witness and experience all those years ago. All that love that you made the decision to walk away from.

"Because... you’re not there."

You feel gutted. "You... don’t want to be in New York because of me?" This is it? But why? "Why, Brian?" You ask him. "What’s wrong? What happened? What the hell are you talking about?"

He runs a shaking hand over his face and sighs. "Because... I am clueless, Justin. I have no fucking idea whether you’re ready or not."

"Ready for what?"

"To have me there."

You stare at him. "You think... I don’t want you in New York?"

"It’s not a question of wanting, Justin." He sounds exasperated. "It’s a question of timing."

"But..."

"You told me once, long before you ever moved to New York..." he says, "That you had to find your own way in life."

"Brian..."

He stops you before you can interrupt any further. "I know, from personal experience, how important standing on your own two feet can be. So I knew at that moment, just as I knew when the question of your going to New York came..." His eyes bore into yours. "That it was true. You had to find your own way. On your own terms, in your own time."

You try to stop him. "Brian..."

But he doesn’t let you. "And I knew at that point that I could never, ever do anything to jeopardize your future, Justin." His voice cracks but he continues. "I could never get in your way because that would fucking defeat the whole purpose, wouldn’t it? I can’t be in New York if it means my being there is a distraction, or if it makes you feel like I am stopping you from making it on your own. Because you’re fucking talented, Sunshine, you’re fucking amazing and you don’t need anyone’s help and nothing can ever..."

You finally stop him by pressing your lips to his, your fingers grabbing hold of his hair to tilt his head up so that you can kiss him hard and firm and passionately. He moans against your mouth, struggling to gain control but you are having none of it. You bite his lips and push him back as you grab hold of his arms and lower your body to his—your cock harder than it has ever been before.

"Justin," he sighs as you kiss him with love and desperation and a burning ache, your fingers pressing under his chin to help angle your mouth better, while your tongue plunders his mouth. Your hands press down his body and you find his cock throbbing with arousal, and you hold it in your hands, feeling him arch in your arms, as it pulses with need. "Justin," he groans, as you reach out and find a condom in the pocket of your discarded jeans and with your teeth against his neck, you put it on yourself.

"Brian," you moan against his mouth as you caress his face and his hair and his chest, your hands moving under his hips, searching, and he lets you fold his legs onto your shoulders. And then with a deep sigh, you align your cock with his opening, your tongue laving down his neck, and plunge into him.

You rub your hands soothingly over his arms and his sides and his thighs aligning your chest as you fuck him hard—thrusting in and out of him with abandon. You feel his arms holding you close, his back arching as you tug at the point between his neck and shoulder with your teeth, leaving marks, making him gasp, and then soothing the sting with your lips and tongue.

He cries out, as you grab his thighs and bend his legs even more so that you can fuck him deeper, your cock plunging hard inside him. He’s tight, oh so fucking tight, you groan as you lean down to kiss him again—his tongue lashing yours in return.

"Brian..." You shudder against his neck as you feel your need build, your senses heightened with the scent and taste of his arousal, and the feel of his silky soft skin. You reach down for his cock again and he groans as you squeeze it between your fingers, letting it coat your palms with the leaking precum. And when you lean down to kiss him again, your teeth gnashing and your tongue tangling with his, you feel his cock convulsing in your hand. The sound of his guttural moans and the tight squeeze of his ass over your cock is enough to push you over the edge as well.

Once your bodies have stopped shaking, you kiss his thighs and help his legs off your shoulders, slowly pulling out of him. You get rid of the condom and as you lay down next to him—pulling him close to your body—the only thing you can think of is that you didn’t have to go through this. That all Brian wanted was to hear that you were ready to have him with you. That all this time when you had lain awake in your lonely bed, missing him, and wondering when would be the next time you’d see him, all of it could’ve been avoided if only you’d told him you wanted him to be with you.

"Brian." You touch his face, your fingers slowly caressing his cheeks. "Brian," you urge him to look at you, your voice pleading.

He opens his eyes and you look straight into them. "Brian, I don’t want to be away from you anymore." You kiss his nose and his cheeks and his lips. "Please, don’t leave me. Don’t move away from me. Please, Brian. I don’t want to spend even a moment away from you."

He touches your arm. "Justin..."

"I don’t ever want to lose you, Brian," you tell him. "I don’t ever want to feel that we had a chance… to make a life together, and we wasted it because you thought I didn’t want to be with you."

"Justin..."

"I won’t be able to live with myself, Brian..." You bite your lips. "If something ever happened to you and I felt I had wasted my chance with you."

He swallows hard.

"I love you, Brian." You breathe in deeply, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. "Please don’t leave me."

"I am not..." He shakes his head, his eyes suddenly wet as he stares at you. "God, Justin. I want to be with you. I’ve always wanted to be with you."

"And I’m the one who fucked this up, right?" You sob. "I am the one who fucked us up."

"That’s bullshit." He grits his teeth and suddenly sits up. "You’re the one who kept us together." His voice is firm and resolute. "When you were out there, being fabulous, working on your art and your career and making a name for yourself, with me loving every moment of your success,” he pauses a second. “Even if it hurt to be away from you, I always knew I had you, Justin." He looks into your eyes. "You never, for even a moment, let me fear that I’d lost you. You always found a way to keep our lives involved. You kept us together. You did it."

You let the loving and all-encompassing feeling of his trust in you wash over you, and it rejuvenates you, fills you with new hope and dreams. You search his eyes for any residal pain and find nothing but relief. "I want us to be together, Brian," you tell him.

"Tell me," he asks. "Where do you want us to be?"

"No." You shake your head. "You tell me. After all this, I don’t care. I can draw anywhere I want—as long as I have you." You let him absorb this for a moment. Then you put your finger below his chin and tilt his face up to look into his eyes. "I want you to decide."

And he smiles.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_Home_

At the loft, the two of you are greeted by your entire extended family—amidst loud cheers and delighted hollers.

Deb envelops Brian is a big hug, holding him tight, and when she whispers, "I love you, kiddo, and I am so glad you’re okay," you realize that her love may sometimes be heavy handed and harsh, but it’s real and it’s true and it will last forever.

It’s a little while later, after Emmett is done breaking down for the fifth time and Ted and Michael are done scouring the kitchen drawers for more paper towels to dry his tears, that you follow Brian to the fridge to take a water bottle out. There you find your mother, quietly sipping from her own glass—and as you drink from your bottle, you notice a strange little exchange take place between your mother and your lover.

She stares into his eyes, the look in her eyes silently questioning him, and you watch as a slow smile spreads across Brian’s face. He nods at her, and you watch them, as he leans forward and quietly whispers in her ear.

"New York."

As your mother’s eyes light up, and she reaches up with her hand to tilt his face towards her and kisses him on his forehead, you realize that not all things need to be said aloud.

Some communications happen under the surface and that’s the way they’re meant to be.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

_The gift_

It’s Christmas Eve, and you and Brian are holding another reception at the House.

Lindsay and Mel have again come down with the kids, and you’re pleased to see Mel actually agreeing to stay at the House this year.

Brian let Emmett handle the festivities, only supervising a little with the decorations and not complaining too much about the food. Emmett shushed him and told him to stop being a drama queen because he had everything under control. He is quite adept at party planning, of course, and you know Brian knows this—otherwise he would never have entrusted him with this task.

Right before the dinner, Brian herds everyone into the library where the Christmas Tree is, and announces the commencement of the gift opening. Gus comes running down the stairs, hollering about his presents, and Brian tackles him down to the carpet, kissing him on the head.

"Dad, I love this!" Gus laughs when he sees his brand new Kid-sized Harley Davidson, and hugs his father. "I’ll be the coolest kid on the street."

"You’re already the coolest kid." Brian ruffles his son’s hair. "You’re my kid."

Then Gus opens the package you’ve given him and smiles so brightly, you think his face would split in half. "Wow, Justin. An Art Studio Junior Picasso set. I’ve always wanted this, but mama never let mom buy one because she thinks I’ll make a mess."

Brian snorts as Mel grumbles about paint stains on the sofa and leans down to whisper in Gus’s ears. "Go ahead, sonny boy. You have my blessing to do with the sofas as you want."

"Now you open yours," Gus pronounces once he’s done with his gifts—looking at you and Brian.

"Gus, I think everyone else should open the gifts they’ve received," you tell him. "We’re the hosts so we should be last."

"But I want you to open yours first." Gus pouts. "Please!"

"Yeah, go ahead, Sunshine." Deb calls out, "Just keep any kinky sex toys hidden from view. We’ve got children in here." Everyone else laughs and agrees with the sentiment. You try to gauge Brian’s mood through his eyes, but he only smiles and shrugs.

You pick up the gift you’d chosen for Brian and hand it to him. "You go first."

He pokes his tongue inside his cheek as he dramatically sighs and pulls open the wrapper around the tiny box. He opens it and as everyone holds their breaths in anticipation, he takes out the small item hidden inside.

It’s a key.

He looks at you questioningly, and you feel a shy smile creeping up your face as you explain. "It’s a copy of the key to my place in New York. Now, it’s yours too. We’ll share it until we find a new place to live in. Until then, you and I both will have keys to our home in New York."

Everyone goes awww as Brian leans forward to kiss you. And then you watch a cryptic smile tug at his lips as he pushes his wrapped gift into your hands.

"Your turn," he says.

You carefully remove the wrapping paper and take out the gift—which turns out to be a small photo album, with colorful pictures inside. Of houses, and rooms and high-rise buildings. You turn to Brian.

"These are some of the places your mom suggested I explore when I was looking at real estate in New York," Brian says. "I never really went to see any of them because I didn’t want to do it without you." He looks into your eyes. "These are for us to live in. Kinnetik can come later. Now that you’re in on the secret, you and I can go exploring together."

Everyone around you hoots and claps as you throw your arms around Brian and kiss him soundly on the lips.

His own arms close tightly around you, and as you feel the weight of his hand resting on your back, you know life has never, ever before been more perfect than at this moment.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The End


End file.
